Too Late
by That Sly Procyon
Summary: Rocket knew it was over now, knew by that damned orange light which had been with him since birth once more enveloping his mind, taking him to another place. He knew because here there were countless voices in a deafening wind, whispering unwanted images of final moments as they were obliterated by an overwhelming violet wave which chilled the raccoonoid to the core.
1. Adrift

Author's note: I first considered doing this as a one-shot, but one idea flowed into another and now I'm busy writing more of this whenever I get the opportunity to do so. That this began as a one-shot is also why the first few chapters will probably be short. In the case of this chapter, it happened to end at a decent enough location in my view anyway. This is the first time I've really tried my hand at fanfiction. Reviews and critique/constructive criticism/advice are all greatly appreciated.

* * *

He had always imagined dying would be painful, but this wasn't. He felt as though he were…floating?

 _No, not floating. You can't float when there's nothing for you to float on. Or rather, when what you would be floating on is vaporising and then depositing around you. There's no atmosphere, no temperature that's significant enough to allow the water to maintain its liquid state. You're just there, another part of the debris field where a thriving planet used to be._

They hadn't realized that while they formulated a plan of attack, their foe was being informed of every step. They hadn't, couldn't have known that there was a spy for Ronan the Accuser among the ranks of the Ravagers with whom their leader had spent a major part of his life. By the time they saw it, it was already too late.

Rocket knew his implants were working in overdrive to keep the most important part of his organic body alive, at the expense of the other bits and pieces that required oxygenated blood. He wouldn't have been conscious for as long as he had been, if his brain weren't still functioning. Wouldn't have been able to think, even as the rest of his body was succumbing to the reality of his situation, trying to come up with a plan to fix it—to make things right. Space was cold, but in the effective vacuum, Rocket couldn't feel it. The only indication were the ice crystals that coated his unprotected body.

 _Ha. Everyone told me space was supposed to feel cold. Maybe they all lied._

He'd have curled his lips into a smile, if his muscles only were working right. It was funny, really. He had always pushed others away, used to being virtually alone in the galaxy. Now the galaxy finally had enough and the cyborg found himself pushed back, pushed into a void far larger than the one inside of him that he was afraid to fill. Rocket's thoughts wandered, away from survival, and to the team that he knew he had failed. By the time he had seen it, it was already too late.

* * *

The assassin was the first to speak, standing and looking up at the human who called himself Star-Lord.

He just looked back at her, an expression almost like surprise flashing over his face for the briefest of seconds, as though he was expecting them all to remain seated, passive, while the galaxy went to Hell around them.

"I have spent most of my life surrounded by my enemies. I will be grateful to die among my friends."

The one calling himself the Destroyer stood next, face hardening with resolve. As he spoke, the faintest of smiles crossed the man's face.

"You are an honourable man, Quill. I will fight beside you, and in the end…see my wife and daughter again."

Rocket started to open his mouth to speak, when Groot rose and faced Star-Lord. He felt his mouth hanging open and his expression involuntarily became one of surprise. He maintained said expression as the tree's vocal cords permitted him to say only, "I am Groot" and the words were subconsciously given meaning, a meaning that only came from years spent learning the subtle nuances of _Flora Colossus_ speech patterns.

"Futile though any plan to stop the Accuser may turn out to be, I would be honoured to stand firm as your ally and friend, Star-Lord."

The four standing—Quill, Gamora, Drax and Groot—turned almost simultaneously towards Rocket. He felt their expectant gazes boring into him, and the mammal shook his head gently, closing his eyes for a brief second. The words were out of his mouth before he realised he was going to speak, lighthearted tone masking the unwanted fear gripping his mind.

"Awh, what the Hell? I don't got that long a lifespan anyway…"

* * *

Through half-closed eyelids, Rocket could make out specific bits and pieces of the debris strewn around him. A few crushed and charred Nova Corps Starfighters; a very out-of-place looking cybernetic hand, sparks emanating from the interior surface; a familiar sword drifting towards him, ice spread across its blade.

 _Shit. Gamora ain't gonna like that…_

Rocket laughed; or at least, forced his body to move as if he were laughing, although nothing was funny about the situation he was currently in. It took a lot more effort than he anticipated to grab the blade with both hands, bringing it close to his face. He knew the action had cost him valuable time, diverting blood flow from his brain to his limbs. But it was worth it, to hold onto something…some part of the people who he had ended up with. Rocket cradled the sword for a few seconds, then looked past it, eyes fixing on another blade—more like a twenty inch piece of metallic shrapnel—sticking out of his stomach, a dark reddish ice coating the surface.

 _Oh. So_ that's _why I don' feel cold…_

His lips curled up into a smile. He couldn't stop his thoughts from drifting towards Drax, and what he had told him before they reached Xandar.

* * *

They all knew the risk involved. They had each prepared, in their own way, for the seeming inevitability of failure, and of death.

Gamora meditated quietly in one of the _Eclector's_ rest areas. Quill sat with Udonta and Obfonteri on the bridge, awkwardly shooting the breeze as if they were old friends—in a way, they were. Groot was pruning some of the more wild-looking sprouts off of his barky hide.

It had taken Rocket a while to locate Drax. He was kneeling, alone, in a small room with a viewport that spanned the entirety of the wall, allowing the occupants a view of the cosmos. The Destroyer's head was bowed, and he held his knives delicately with his forearms crossed over each other. The blades were turned inwards, and for a moment Rocket thought he was going to impale himself.

"Uh…Drax? You…you alright, man?"

The man's head turned slightly and cocked towards him and Rocket immediately felt uncomfortable, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, avoiding his gaze.

"N-never mind, I'll…I-I'll leave you to it—"

"You do not have to leave, my furry comrade. Sit down."

The man pulled up into a sitting position, placing his knives on the ground in front of him and gesturing for Rocket to sit next to him. After the briefest of hesitations, he did so, curling his legs up against his chest and resting his head on his knees.

"I…I didn't interrupt you, did I?"

"No. I was merely praying before we depart to fight Ronan."

Rocket blinked, confusion evident on his face as he looked at Drax.

"Preying on what? There's nothing in here that'd count as edible…unless you were serious about…uh, about—well, about eating my species?"

"I was quite serious. My people would boil the skin from your kind's corpse, roast the meat over an open flame and season it with herbs before serving. I will not do the same to you, though. Although you resemble them, you are different from those dumb creatures on my home world. I meant praying…as in communing with the gods of my people. Asking for their blessings to be upon us when we reach Xandar. Have you never prayed before?"

The raccoon-like creature didn't answer immediately, wringing his paws together. Drax wondered if he had crossed some unmarked line, when Rocket spoke, a faint bitterness marking his tone. "…No. No, I haven't. Guess that was never something important enough to be taught how to do, back—way back when. Before I…before I met you folks."

Drax nodded, seeming satisfied with his response. The two sat in silence for a few moments, when Rocket spoke again.

"Hey, Drax. For what it's worth, I-I'm sorry about what I said earlier. About your wife and kid. They didn't deserve that, especially not from me. I know what it's like to…to lose people like that…"

The Destroyer's brow furrowed in such a way that Rocket couldn't quite figure out what was going through his head. He stood and moved towards the viewport, his face reflecting off of the interior glass. "Were they loved ones, rod—Rocket?"

A slight nod was the only reply that Drax received. It was the only reply needed, too. "…I forgive you, friend. I understand that your words came from a place of anger. Of guilt. But I know that you, too, will see them in the end."

"How…how could you know that, Drax? Why do you sound so certain?"

"Some truths are as simple as having faith. It is…comforting to believe. It helps to ease the pain of my loss."

They once again fell silent. The minutes stretched into hours as the two just stood, watching as Xandar's three suns came into view. Resolve hardened on both of their faces when Quill's voice sounded over the intercom.

"It's showtime, people. We all know the plan, so let's get it done."

…

The plan had almost worked, too. But it hadn't accounted for Ronan destroying the entirety of the Xandarian fleet. It hadn't accounted for Ronan surviving the Hadron Enforcer. And it hadn't accounted for Rocket failing to notice, as he flew his M-class ship towards the Dark Aster with the full intent of crushing the Accuser under its hull, that the Kree fanatic had levelled his weapon towards him and was staring him dead in the eye—smiling.

He didn't see it before it was too late, too late to avoid the purple blast of energy that gutted his ship, the force of the impact thrusting his small body forwards and into the controls. As his vessel plummeted, Rocket had fought to keep steady, fought to avoid crashing into the unarmed civilians their plan was meant to save. And for the most part, he had—instead, landing ungracefully on the surface of the ocean that surrounded the Nova Corps' headquarters. What felt like an eternity later but he knew was only a few minutes at most, he saw a telltale purple glow light the horizon. He could almost feel the anguish of millions of innocents tearing into him, and the screams which cried out for the briefest of moments before being extinguished, engulfed by the wave of destruction that would soon cover the entirety of Xandar's surface.

In the final moments before the blast engulfed his own vessel, one moment of clarity—or desperation, considering the damage already sustained by the ship—caused the smallest member of Star-Lord's ragtag band of misfits to engage the emergency ejector seat. By some miracle, it worked, cushioning his body in a viscous protective shell and launching the seat out from the cockpit just as the wave struck the ship. A deafening roar filled his ears as the sea beneath Rocket literally turned to smoke— _no, steam_ —and propelled him further into the air, which was quickly becoming thin, the atmosphere evaporating from the surface up as the Infinity Stone's power reached the core of the Xandarian home world. Rocket was faintly aware of the wreckage of his ship scattering, a large chunk of it rapidly approaching him.

 _I'm sorry, guys…I failed you._

* * *

As Rocket's vision began to finally start fading away at the edges, he was unsure of why he brought his forehead to rest against the flat of Gamora's sword. He was unsure of why he began to silently plead to any spirits or whatever deities that may be able to hear him. He had never been one to believe in something as abstract as faith, but now that his cybernetics had slowed to a crawl, unable to force any more oxygen into his brain, Rocket found himself begging for relief.

Begging for salvation.

Begging for forgiveness.

In the last few seconds before his consciousness faded completely, Rocket would have sworn aloud were he able to. Cutting through the darkness of his vision came a light, almost blinding him with its intensity. He was aware of an all-too-familiar figure approaching, the eyes on the mask glowing an unmistakable crimson. Aware of a strong yet gentle grasp drawing his shaking body— _why…am I…shaking…?—_ towards the light.

 _Haha…of course…it has to be you…_

Rocket's eyes slid shut and he allowed the light to envelop him.


	2. To Court Death

Author's note: Sorry for the late and somewhat short chapter. Things will start picking up soon, I promise. Enjoy this little tidbit.

* * *

The first thing it remembered seeing was an orange light.

It had been a gentle light back then. Soothing. Warm. It was the only comfort the creature needed for the first few days of its life after first opening its eyes.

Then the light became stronger. Less warm. Less comforting. As _they_ began to poke and prod, the light was always there. With every increase in the light's intensity they began to become more intrusive, poking the thing with sharp objects that cut into its skin and caused it pain. Then they went further and the light became even harsher, burning unfamiliar objects, and places into its memory as they tore into it with blades and removed pieces which the creature somehow knew kept it alive.

It _knew_. It became aware of itself, aware of _being_ more than an "it". With that awareness came more pain. They tore open his—yes, _his_ , a forbidden word that one of the new assistants had uttered—throat and removed that most essential piece for expressing his unwillingness to be there. To stop him from crying out in pain as his body was rebuilt piece by piece with cold, dead metal.

They addressed him in terms he did not quite understand, save for catching flickers of context from within that ever-present light. "Subject" was the most frequent. They hadn't given him a proper name, instead assigning him a string of numbers and letters with no meaning. It was their way of reducing his existence, of making him know that he was not their equal and never would be—

—that was a long time ago, though. The ones who had tormented him for so long, leaving him less than whole in more ways than one—an incomplete facsimile of life—were now dead by his hands. Or rather, dead by the obnoxiously large gun that he had put together from the scrap metal that was left for him to tinker with.

Rocket was good at tinkering with things. Some things, however, were beyond even his ability to fix. He may have been a genius when it came to engineering a gun or a warp drive out of junk metal and scrap electronics, but if presented with a broken body, broken mind or a broken _life_ , it was all he could do to tell the truth—"You'd be better off sticking your head in a friggin' reactor than coming to me for help. I know some good ones."

Now it was his life that was broken. He knew it was over now, knew by that damned orange light which had been with him since birth once more enveloping his mind, taking him to another place. He knew because here there were countless voices in a deafening wind, whispering unwanted images of final moments as they were obliterated by an overwhelming violet wave which chilled the raccoonoid to the core.

He knew that it was over because in the fog he saw Drax the Destroyer on his knees, tears streaming down his face as he embraced a woman and a child who looked like him—vaguely recalled their names, mentioned one time in a prison barely a week ago. The words seemed to sting, carrying an unwanted bitterness especially with one of the last things Drax had said.

"Ronan killed my wife, Yvette. And my daughter Camaria. He slaughtered them where they stood…and he _laughed!_ "

"I will fight beside you, and in the end…see my wife and daughter again."

What else could this be but the end? Rocket watched, unfeeling, as dozens of beings he knew were _Flora colossi_ crowded around an ecstatic-looking Groot, all saying the same three words which held so much more meaning than others knew.

"I am Groot!"

"I…am Groot?"

" _I am Groo-oot!"_

Another voice cut through them all. Somehow the raccoon knew the words were addressed to him.

 _Welcome home, child._

Rocket shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest, not bothering to turn around to face the source of the large shadow which had crossed his vision.

 _You are alone here._

A flinch. Anger was the first emotion to fill his chest. Was that meant to be some kind of joke? Of _course_ he was alone here—"Ain't no thing like me, 'cept me!"—his exact words had been, and he was damn proud of it. Then he looked between Drax and Groot, and pricked his ears towards the wind which howled—the words behind it coloured to the tune of modern-day Standard Xandarian speech, a symphony of happiness and freedom from pain—and the anger turned to numbness. He was alone here—somehow a terrifying thought now, removed from life as he was.

 _You do not belong here._

He bowed his head, burying his snout in his arms as he continued shaking uncontrollably. He was used to this, those words Rocket had heard hundreds of times over the course of his life, forming a shield which for him was unbreakable. Any insult dished to Rocket was reflected back with biting accuracy, any and every method of address which made him to be _less than them_ was typically met with a quad-blaster pointed in their general direction.

"We don't serve rats here!"

"No pets allowed!"

"Freak. Why don't you just crawl into a hole and die?"

There was a time where he never yielded to such attacks, so why was he unable to respond now, as once more he was told that he should leave? How _could_ he respond? It wasn't like there was a door with a big "Exit here!" sign, or a starship to fly out in. There was just an infinite expanse, nothing within but fog and wind and that damnable _light._

 _You do not wish to be here._

Finally Rocket whirled around, mouth twisted into a snarl as he yelled back. "Of _course_ I don' want to be here, sh't for brains! What was your first clue, me shakin' so hard that I'm shedding? Or did you just read my freakin' mind?"

That's what he would have yelled, anyway. Maybe he did yell—he wasn't sure now, it was as if his mind went blank as he faced the source of the shadow engulfing him.

All Rocket could do was stare at the small, whimpering animal before him. Beady brown eyes gazed into his own, orange light reflecting from their depths. Small metallic nubs poked out from its back just beneath the shoulder blades, a larger one sticking out from the centre of its back. The thing raised a paw—mangled and broken looking, metal rods piercing the last set of knuckles—and Rocket found himself grasping it, an unprovoked wetness causing his vision to film over. He did nothing to stop the tears from dripping down his snout as he stared at his younger self.

"Wh-what is th-this?"

 _Long ago you sought out Death, and now you refuse Her embrace._

"What the Hell are you—"

 _You already know what I speak of._

Rocket fell silent, taking a few steps back and shaking his head. "Th-that was a long time ago! I ain't like that now!"

 _You deny that it is your time? You courted Death and now you spurn Her?_

"No! I-I ain't sayin' that at all. You wanna know what _I_ believe about death?"

The raccoon took the silence to be an affirmative one, and he took a breath before looking his mirror in the eyes. "Everybody dies eventually. But it ain't right to die on terms that you didn't set…terms that you didn't agree to. If you—if you can't have the freedom to choose how you die, then what freedom do you have, right?"

The reflection blinked, then began to disappear. Another figure took its place; tall, feminine, wizened. The shadow surrounding Rocket took shape and began to wrap the form until it was completely cloaked and hooded. Defiant brown eyes met hollow sockets as the woman knelt down in front of him, silent.

"You do _not_ spurn me…"

Rocket tilted his head in surprise. He hadn't expected a response like that. Was he even expecting a response? He certainly hadn't expected her to _speak_ , especially not when she seemed to be nothing but a skeleton. Her jaw twisted into something resembling a smile, and for the first time here Rocket felt the chill ease up when she continued.

"You want to meet me on your own terms. You are not alone in that."

The wind fluctuated, some voices becoming more clear than others. He heard Garthen Saal's last transmission to him before Ronan destroyed the Xandarian fleet; he heard a Ravager's hasty message for backup before a Necrocraft smashed through the hull of his M-ship, obliterating both. He heard desperate, pleading words intermixed with halted clicks and grunts of a vaguely familiar type— _Chitauri, soldier dialect_ , the translator chip in Rocket's brain indicated. Animalistic cries of pain and fear.

Rocket fell silent, taking in the wind for a few moments. The woman moved to stand at his side, and it felt like both an instant and an eternity before she spoke again, touching his shoulder gently. He flinched and looked into her sockets, now blazing with the same orange glow which permeated everything here.

"I can send you back…but it will cost you."

This caught his interest more than anything else she had said up to that point. Swiveling his ears towards the woman, he couldn't help but pursue this topic further. "How much are we talking about? What could a lady like you be interested in, anyway?"

"I want nothing. The cost is yours to bear. I can send you back, but you will not be whole."

The raccoon couldn't help but snicker and allow himself a moment of sarcasm. "Oh, is that all? I ain't never been whole, miss. Probably never will be either. Do what you have to. I still have things left to finish."

 _Like killing the hell out of a certain Kree Accuser…_

She nodded once, raising a bony hand towards the sky. The fog began to disperse as the light above grew brighter, harsher. Rocket threw his hands over his eyes, squinting through the light at the woman. He called out one last time before losing sight of her in the firey glow engulfing him once more.

"Hey, lady! I never caught your name!"

A silence which seemed to stretch out for years met him; before quietly, Rocket heard four words.

"…I am Lady Death."


End file.
